Glad to say that, as of this past weekend in Ireland, I’ve officially had the “real hostel experience” — a.k.a., meeting a ton of very random people with very strange back-stories, all in a vaguely unusual hostel environment with limited amounts of personal space.
We went for Irish food (stew, guinness, and more guinness) with the men currently sound asleep in the bunk next to me : a 27-year-old forest-fighter and his grizzly Californian dad, who frequently use words like “dude” and “tight” and have no set itinerary for their month-long backpacking trip across Europe.
Later, the Irish receptionist invited us downstairs to wear irish leprachaun hats and take shots of some unsettling local (and cheap?) liquor, in celebration of the banker's holiday on Monday.
We sat around and talked to some Brazilian kid who’s in month six of a seven-month odyssey. We also met some mexicans — who also, somehow, have French and British citizenship and are on break from the Swiss school where they’re studying hospitality.
… On some level, I SERIOUSLY can’t believe this is my life.
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